


choose me out of desire

by enamouries



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Time Skip, Smut, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:40:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24912499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enamouries/pseuds/enamouries
Summary: Akaashi Keiji wants to be Osamu’s fuckinglove wins.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Miya Osamu
Comments: 25
Kudos: 237





	choose me out of desire

**Author's Note:**

> sooooooo. here it is! the osaaka soap taiwanese drama that i said i was working on that claimed my life through my asshole on twitter. this was fun to work on, and it threw me out of my comfort zone as a writer (i have not written smut in 3-4 years ahaha) and i would like to shoutout [viv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vividere/pseuds/inumvkis) for bullying me into writing this. i actually really like this piece.

**What kills love? Only this: Neglect**. 

Not to see you when you stand before me. Not to think of you in the little things.

Not to make the road wide for you, the table spread for you.

 **To choose you out of habit not desire** ,

To pass the flower seller without a thought.

— Jeanette Winterson

-

Akaashi wakes up at 3, and then 9, and then 10:30, and then 11, and then 12:30, and then at 2 — finally now, just. It has been a long time since he has ever felt such heaviness to stay in bed. In his head he is ok, and he takes this as a certain kind of strength not many people will understand: he feels strangely tethered to the ground at his core, as painful as everything swirling around that feels, as sad and unfortunate and untimely and absurd as feelings might be. He doesn’t know if it’s resignation from being tired of darkness and disappointment and decay, or resilience because of the broken heart he has been nursing. In spite of feeling very, very low, he is just letting it pass, waiting it out, holding space for himself to process and navigate on how to move on—

And it feels ok. He feels like he will be ok. 

This is the natural course of heart slash brain activity when something is revealed, when a consideration needs to be evaluated, when a barrier is given new light. Reality feels sticky and tough and impossible; optimism feels naive, idealistic, reckless — and inauthentic, forced, dangerous in the long-run.

Keiji doesn’t want to be Osamu’s sad story to tell, his _the one I loved and lost_ , his _the one I let go of_. He doesn’t want to become this figment of his past, this _yes, he played a part in shaping me,_ this tragic romance novel, his _I regret and it ended._ He doesn’t want to be reduced to this _that’s so sad_.

He wants to be his _the one I love_ , his _the one who stayed and stuck with him through it all._ He wants to become this person of his past, present, future, this, _yes, he teaches me what love means everyday_ , this constant rejuvenation, this constant renewal, relearning, reteaching, restrengthening, fuller and fuller and sturdier and studier, this constant reminder, this sweet testimony, his _I regret but learned and loved him better, wiser, stronger_.

Not to be a past lesson but a present presence.

He wants to be Osamu’s fucking _love wins_.

-

Akaashi cannot remember how they started holding hands with each other’s chains. But he remembers one thing: the pile of electrical and wired mess shattering against the wall and falling apart all over the floor, claiming the life of the frame that holds a picture of them together along with it. The picture, scratched up from the broken pieces of glass, is still somewhere in his drawer in his bare apartment. 

He thumbs at his mother’s ring, hands emptily hovering over the aircraft navigation system. The flight deck unit kind of reminds him of his broken laptop. 

“So how’s your first flight being first officer?” Washio asks, letting out a yawn as he relaxes back into his seat, “You can relax. It’s on autopilot.” 

The sea is unable to find its way to the skies. 

“It’s nice. I mean, it’s just a short domestic route. Not a long-haul flight.”

“There’s no such thing as a hundred percent when it comes to flying,” Washio glances over, and Keiji blinks, letting the realisation hit him. He looks out into the skies and he sees blue all over, aircraft pushing away clouds as it surges forward. 

Maybe he’s still trying to make way for the sea.

Akaashi has just barely started. Every time he finds himself in the cockpit he keeps thinking of putting his hands on the sky, like it’s a ceiling, and lifting it up. Peer through the gap. And just when Akaashi thinks that he can finally breathe, the ceiling cracks. Shattered fragments of sky, crumbling and falling all around him. Keiji blinks and then he suddenly finds himself in a room, white on the walls, white from the ceiling to the floor, white against his naked skin. And he sits, knees to chest, lips to the nook they make. It stretches into the quietest silence—

Broken laptop, shattered picture frame, the photo of them, the absence of Miya Osamu.

His mother’s ring.

-

Akaashi felt the soreness and ache in his calves and especially in his knees, after having greeted multiple guests at his mother’s funeral. He nervously played with the ring that’s settling nicely on his right index finger: it’s a customised Solitaire 1895 Cartier ring, with a gold band that has diamonds all over it, and an oval piece of emerald that settles right in the middle.

His mother has told him the gem caught her attention because it resembles Keiji’s eyes and she wants to carry a piece of that with her as much as she can. 

Now he’s left to carry on that burden. Carry on the piece of himself that he loathes so much. His mother’s death has broken him— finally.

Fuck falling in love.

Keiji’s heart is already entangled, intertwined in a web of regrets and self-hatred and he doesn’t have the patience to separate himself from it, to free himself from these chains. He doesn’t believe that it’s morally correct to fall in love because you end up destroying and rebuilding another being. Osamu did that to him, and Akaashi can never make someone else sit through the pain he suffered.

After watching his mother’s body get cremated, he closed off these bones so someone will never know how to trace him without him having to show them how he looks like bare, naked, and vulnerable. He and his father decided to scatter the ashes of his mother into the sea. The wind blows to the left, and so the ashes follow after it, chasing after freedom, departing from mortality as they let go of whatever remains that’s left of his mother, his father’s wife. 

The ring settles uncomfortably on his finger. But it’s okay.

With the wind turning into a more gentle breeze, he is reminded of how when their lips touch, Keiji’s hair will touch his gently— like two winds colliding. 

Fuck falling in love.

(As much as he wished to hug and be held by Osamu then.) 

-

And so when Keiji is standing in front of Osamu, he doesn’t know what to make out of the situation. He twists the ring around his finger, looking down at the ground. The key for ‘delete’ is staring right back at him amongst the keys of alphabetical mess, and their smiles are against broken glass. He is a carcass of regrets and apologies and things that always go wrong before they never become right.

He wants to tell Osamu that he has been listening to his voicemails when he cannot sleep at night— Akaashi is so distracted, thinking of Osamu and his lashes that furls and unfurls as he is staring at him, eyes blinking.

“Keiji?” Osamu asks again, trying to get his attention. Keiji only gulps. He’s heard it so many times in Osamu’s voicemails but it’s new to him, foreign to him. Devoid of affection; a friendly gesture, nothing more. 

“Sorry, you were saying?”

“I said, nice ring. Though it’s a little too feminine,” Osamu grins— he’s trying to make a joke. It’s awkward. Tense. Weird. Akaashi doesn’t like it. 

“It’s my mother’s,” Akaashi deadpans, and then his voice drops to a whisper, “She passed about a year ago. I’ve been wearing it since.”

“Fuck. I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay.”

He doesn’t want Osamu’s sentimentality— he thinks: _quit looking at me with the intention of melting me. It’s working— you, you— you fucking asshole._

Akaashi grips onto his suitcase tightly, the edges of his mother’s ring pressing harshly into his flesh. He wants to move, but he is unable to. He feels like he’s drowning as the tightness in his throat starts to suffocate him, and that if he is to open his mouth— ocean tears might just spill out. 

“I didn’t expect that you’ll become a pilot,” Osamu murmurs, as if he’s afflicted with a pang of guilt and shame. Then he looks up again to scan Akaashi in his pilot uniform, and his jaw is hinged, as if he’s holding himself back from saying any more. 

“A lot has happened,” Akaashi replies, voice blank. His knuckles are turning white and the gems on his mother’s ring are cutting at his flesh by now. 

“Yeah,” Osamu sighs. And when Keiji feels like his lungs are going to explode, he decides to just walk away— luggage in tow, burdens in tow, weight of his mother’s ring in tow. Then there is a grip around his wrist.

“Pretty shitty of me to ask,” Osamu scratches his neck with his free hand, and then as if like a plea, he whispers, “But, can I have your number?”

He might have just succumbed to the desire to kiss the fuck out of Osamu there and then, and subsequently get hurt knowing that in the morning he most likely will wake up alone. He looks down at his mother’s ring one more time, and he remembers the ‘closed’ sign that fits around his neck like a noose.

Things have changed.

But Keiji’s heart is still very capable of unfolding.

-

Keiji hurts every night and puts off sleeping to continue indulging and therein perpetuates his own cycle of self-destruction. 

It’s silly, but he always feels afraid of falling asleep— it’s just this innate, irrational fear of succumbing to slumber. He has dreams where he bleeds red at where his chest is, heart becoming a grenade. And then he’s surrounded by blue, melting into an ocean where he drowns. The blue and red converge into one and the next thing he knows he is drowning in his own blood and tears. 

He’s tired and his eyelids are slowly becoming heavier but he insists on reading. On thinking. On tossing and turning. On listening to Osamu’s voicemails. But just not on sleeping. Anything but sleep. He doesn’t want to wake up with tears and taste the salt because it only reminds him of his dreams and the sea.

Many times have Keiji look at the empty space on his bed, and it always feels like hosts of collective memories, an archival ghost that he sees under the duvet, a phantom hand holding him tightly or a gentle hold, fingers interlinked and interlinked, within cells interlinked, a soft sadness as he feels cold without a blanket (that Osamu always hogs) and doesn’t have his warmth to lean into, his _I’m sorry I took the blanket again_ whispers and Keiji’s sarcastic _why am I in love with a blanket hogger_ , his eyes pull him into the wall beside their bed, photos of them that they’re no longer living in but that are bound together with this thread of emotive and experiential universality, and he is sucked in by the concept of contained cosmic energy, this feverish phoenix force held within skeleton and skin, and he is dreaming and floating and thinking and feeling and he—

He is not as strong as his words pretend to be.

Taking off his glasses, he rubs at his own face. 

Akaashi is tiredly hefty and further withdrawn. He falls back into his bed and he plays Osamu’s voicemails again. He feels empty. So he plays the voicemails over it like it’s all he has (it’s really all he has). The silence is filled with Osamu’s rambles, tumbling over his own words and thoughts, expressing how he’s feeling to him. Akaashi looks back and knows that he is completely losing it. 

More than sad, he is exhausted.

-

He receives his first text from Osamu.

**[Miya Osamu]:**

Are you in Tokyo?

**Read 02:47AM**

**[Me]:**

Yeah. What’s up?

**Read 02:49AM**

**[Miya Osamu]:**

Want to grab ramen?

**Read 02:50AM**

Keiji feels like his heart might just burst. It’s just so fucking unfair even despite the fact that he _knows_. He knows that it’s two steps forward, one step back, three steps forward, one step back, two steps forward but he thought that it has finally stopped there and now he’s five steps back, he’s back at where he started again. He hates it, he fucking hates it and he doesn’t know whether to scream at this cruel joke that fate has handed out to him— it’s always on days that feel fine, even good, for the most part, then something will haul him back into labyrinths of underground enclosures that he has been trying to silence, keep buried; those of which he has so carefully and painfully spent (and, he sometimes think, continue to spend) years trying to navigate out of, of which he has spilt blood for trying to claw his way out, to gulp in breath. 

He throws his phone aside and fiddles with his mother’s ring. He turns it to the left, then adjusts it back to the right. The green gem illuminates under the moonlight. He screams into his pillow, and then picks up his phone.

**[Me]:**

Sure.

**Read 2:55AM**

**[Miya Osamu]:**

I’ll meet you at Shibuya? Ichiran Ramen?

3:30AM?

**Read 2:56AM**

**[Me]:**

Okay.

**Read 2:56AM**

-

Something about seeing Osamu face-to-face and acknowledging that he breathes just doesn’t sit right with Akaashi. He thinks of fire, ashes, then the ocean, and he wishes that those moments he went through were with Osamu— and of Osamu. 

He likes the idea of thinking Osamu is dead. Because the dead cannot hurt the living. 

This is just an anomaly. He is perhaps a poltergeist. 

Akaashi turns on the faucet, and then splashes his face with water. Tears. Ocean. He cannot tell the difference anymore. Grief doesn’t want him to grow and walk a new path. Grief wants him to remember everything. Imperfect. Clear.

He’s still early, so he goes back out to the streets. Packing the new box of cigarettes that he just bought, he hits it against his palm repeatedly, the sound of the paper packaging hitting skin filling the quiet, midnight air. 

Slotting a stick in between his lips, he brings his left hand up to give cover to his lighter, to prevent the wind from blowing it out. The fire lights up the end of his cigarette, the slight hint of ashes dripping as the tobacco leaves turn into a fiery red. He takes a deep breath in, inhaling the cancer, and then takes his cigarette out of his mouth to exhale the fumes. 

He watches the smoke surround him and waft away into the streets, and then Miya Osamu appears from the cloud of grey. Akaashi smiles wryly at him. It’s like a scene straight out of a cheesy, cliche film.

He feels this rock in his chest being lifted, dropped, lifted, dropped, sunken to the bottom of the belly, risen to the heart, lifted, dropped, turned over, examined, dissected, hardened, solidified. then lifted again, in agonizingly teasing temperament and transience. He really shouldn’t be spending so much time in his head, but it’s not like he’s not paying as much attention to reality. The duality of this state of existence — always in mind and in body — is truly a result of festering insecurity, and fuck, he is starting to overthink his decision of meeting Osamu.

And then when Osamu greets him with a smile and a tiny wave of his hand, all logic is thrown out of the window as Keiji smiles back. 

“Didn’t know you smoked.”

“A lot has changed.”

Then Keiji hears the familiar sound of paper packaging slapping against skin— Osamu is packing his own cigarettes. He unwraps the plastic seal eagerly, as if he hasn’t had his nicotine fix of the day yet. Shaking the box, he pulls a stick out using his teeth, and then lets it settle between his lips before lighting it up. He takes a long drag, and then he holds the stick in between his index and middle finger, tapping away the ash with his thumb.

“Touché.”

-

Osamu moves away the wooden partition between their cubicles, and he angles himself so that he’s somewhat facing Keiji while they’re waiting for their ramen. The restaurant is empty, save for the staff that are toiling through their graveyard shift. Orange lights deflect off the wooden interior, the atmosphere warm and maybe even a little home like. The smell of ramen is everywhere, and it’s an aroma that Keiji misses— he hasn’t had much ramen in the past year, when he finally started flying commercial. Every time he’s back home in Tokyo or within the country, it’s mostly just meals from Lawson or the occasional yakitori when Washio and his senior pilots drag him out for a drink. 

There is the aroma of thick tonkotsu broth, combined with the subtle smell of starched water that noodles are being lifted out of and tossed in a strainer basket — a check to see if it’s cooked — then it’s being dunked into water again. Cha shu painstakingly prepared for at least a day in advance being sliced and placed on top of an almost ready bowl, and the final touch is an ajitsuke egg, well marinated and taken the colour of soy sauce onto its once white surface. 

He relishes the smell and taste of good, local food, and he looks over at Osamu, who is still staring at him.

“How’s your business?”

Osamu’s eyes widen a little, and then they soften. It’s an unspoken truth between them that their first encounter is playing in their heads— Keiji asking Osamu if he’s going to open a Tokyo branch for his onigiri food stall. 

“It’s great. I’m opening a restaurant here in Tokyo actually. I’ve moved all the way here for it, since it’s going to be the main branch and this is my dream finally coming to fruition,” Osamu smiles, and it’s one of pride, one that boasts his efforts and sacrifices to get to where he is. But it is also wistful, sacrifices meaning the toll it took on his relationship with Keiji. 

Keiji brushes his thumb against the emerald gem of his mother’s ring as he puts his hand beneath his chin, suddenly self-conscious of his own posture. He doesn’t really know where to place his hands or how to sit up properly and where to place his legs. 

And with all the courage he can muster, he mutters a genuine _I’m so proud of you._

-

When Akaashi flung his laptop against the wall, he wasn’t prepared for the amount of pain he was going to face. 

There was so much pain in his heart that it made him want to rip the organ out and let the cavity draw him into darkness as he slurp and splutter for air that will never finish its circuit around his incomplete body.

He screamed and cried and trashed around in his apartment and the neighbours probably heard him and were shit talking him but he was too delirious to care at that point. He didn’t know what to do so he called Bokuto and bawled until he’s a hyperventilating mess when Bokuto asked what was happening and when Akaashi still couldn’t reply he spewed a string of curses and the sound of him grabbing his keys can be heard while he asked Akaashi to stay at his apartment and wait for him. 

He felt like he was 15, watching himself bleed. Waiting for the buzzing to stop. Waiting for the quiet to settle in. Dropping onto the floor, listening to the cold of tiles. The light above him hummed, noiseless. footsteps and silence. He laughed at his tear-stained mirror-self, cackling at the broken picture frame.

In that moment, he was two entities in-&-and one.

Bokuto had found him slumped against the wall across his smashed laptop and broken glass pieces. He pulled Keiji into a tight hug, and whispered assuringly that he would be fine.

But then some days he still feels so small he disappears.

-

He remembers when it’d been pouring and he’s shivering on Osamu’s bed as the latter scrambled to find towels for him. He remembers feeling so sickly but so young. The turn of his life. The newness of everything. They had shed their clothes and fucked in the shower later, warm water chasing the coolness of their skins away as they engulfed each other in an entanglement of muscles, flesh and bones. Kissing the life out of each other as they made their way out to fall back into bed.

He feels an odd ache in his heart as the rain continues to pour while he makes his way to the airport: It wasn’t an _I miss you_ or an _I need you_. It was an ache that existed within a sure strength, a certain tenderness towards time come and gone. A gentle pull, a necessary pull, an upwards pull, a tree growing, leaves and flowers unfurling, branches reaching towards the sky.

How dark the sky, how knowing the stars. He is both grounded and magnetised. The moon, a waning crescent, pulling him close and snug.

-

How is the evening sky blue and yellow, cool and warm everywhere he goes?

He is in Barcelona and the sky belongs to the evening and he is standing in the shadows and praying about suffering and praying about love, and he thinks that maybe he wants to burn like a fire and be sustained, always existing in that soft glow— slash —fervour all over again. He misses wanting to hug, wanting to hold, wanting to fiercely defend, wanting to weep and grieve together, wanting to laugh, wanting to soar. 

They text frequently through Telegram, and one day Osamu sends Keiji pictures of the progress of his restaurant, along with the new menu items that he’s working on. _I’ll let you try it when you’re back_ — an unspoken promise of them meeting up again. Keiji feels a fond smile making its way onto his lips, and he replies with a sticker of a grinning onigiri.

He is in France and he is praying about pain and helplessness and praying about growth and strength. The sky is wide and vacant and watching, and he thinks he can walk down this road forever and disappear, and both day and night will know him, cradle him. At daybreak he listens for the birds. 

Keiji starts to send him pictures too, after that one exchange. They’re touristy, for sure: Notre-Dame de Paris, the Lourve, the Eiffel Tower, et cetera. Osamu saves each and every one of them, and there is one in particular where Keiji is smiling goofily outside the Lourve with his fellow co-pilots. 

Osamu wants to frame that smile in the Lourve. 

**-**

**[Keiji]:**

Best meal I had in my life.

<image>

**Read 04:14PM**

**[Me]:**

Pfft. I think I can do better.

**Read 04:14PM**

**[Keiji]:**

Oh?

Cook me some eggs and benedict then.

**Read 04:15PM**

**[Me]:**

You’re on.

When are you back?

I’ll pick you up and make you the best meal of your life.

**Read 04:16PM**

-

Akaashi is back in Japan, the first feeling as he steps out of the plane is an immense sinking, some gripping anxiety, a rude reawakening, disbelief. A weird kind of surreal. He never would’ve anticipated a homecoming like this, this heaviness and rancidness hanging in the air. These circumstances he has ended up in. He is waiting for a certain someone at arrivals and he can feel his eyes burning up. His first route to Europe really is an escapist pause button, a good, temporary band-aid on things — which is great because it has been a needed rest and a surprising turn of emotions and events, but then it also points to just how unresolved things are between them and how much work there is left to do. It’s crazy how within the past hour his whole body and mind have readjusted (he wants to say unconsciously); He feels stiff and on high alert and scared all of a sudden, all over again, one sweeping wave, how acidic. Swallow swallow swallow. He doesn’t want to cry in front of Osamu asking him ‘why’. Not again. 

Then he sees a familiar snapback— the one with Miya Onigiri’s logo and he feels his heart racing. Not in a good way. It’s the kind that makes him want to go to the nearest emergency room to get treated because his chest is so tight and it hurts to breathe and he thinks of the broken laptop and the stupid ‘delete’ key and the scratched up photo of the two of them together tucked away forlornly in the depths of his drawer. The diamonds on his mother’s ring glimmer under the harshness of the airport’s lights, and it pricks at his eyes so much so that a tear slips out through the breakage, followed by many more.

“Keiji, what’s wrong?” Osamu asks, voice raised, alarmed. Panicking. 

His uniform suddenly feels tight around his shoulders, as his chest threatens to explode with the way his ribcage is clinging onto it protectively. 

_Brace brace brace._

“I hate you.” His voice is cracking, and then he’s gripping onto Osamu’s shirt tightly, “I hate you so much.”

“Keiji—”

“We broke up over a discord call. What the fuck.”

Osamu blanches. Not that he didn’t prepare himself for when this topic comes up, but rather that this isn’t the best place to discuss this. He hesitates for a bit, but eventually settles his hands onto Keiji’s shoulders in an attempt to soothe him. Finally regaining composure, his tone is comforting as he speaks, “I’m sorry that it has become a conversation long overdue, and I promise that we will talk it out. But just not here all right? Let’s get in the car first.” 

-

The moment Osamu slams the car boot shut and turns around to face Keiji, he’s suddenly met with an onslaught of hungry lips nipping away at his own, teeth scraping against dead skin. 

“Keiji,” Osamu says in between kisses, “We— We need to. Talk.” 

Keiji ignores him, and he latches onto Osamu’s lips again, tongue swiping across it as a request for permission to slot it into his mouth. But suddenly he’s being pushed away— just enough so that their foreheads are still touching to assure him that he’s not being rejected. Osamu lets out a breathy _fuck, Keiji_ and when he looks up to see Keiji panting with need right in front of his face, it takes him every fibre of his being to not just lean back in and kiss the shit out of Keiji. 

“As much as I love that,” Osamu sighs, and he places his hand on Keiji’s cheek, admittedly reluctant to let go— he’s really caught in a predicament. But he knows what’s right and what’s wrong and the former will definitely take precedence, “We need to talk. Remember? Shall we head to your apartment?” 

Keiji gulps, as if hesitant. His skin is warm to the touch, Osamu realises, like it’s begging for more of Osamu, as it tempts him to succumb to Keiji’s warmth and to just take him there and then. 

But maybe, and hopefully, there will be many more moments like this to come. And so Keiji eventually agrees, nodding as he slots his fingers in between the ones on his cheek.

His mother’s ring adds a cool touch to the warmth.

-

The ride back to Keiji’s place is awkward, to say the very least.

Many unspoken words are lingering heavily in the air, and it’s bordering on suffocating. Osamu decides to turn on the radio, but Keiji swats his hand away. He opts to intertwine his fingers with Osamu’s instead, and Osamu’s complaints hang onto the tip of his tongue, slowly crawling back into his throat and then chest and it evaporates from there.

Osamu used to wonder how Keiji could stand silences like this, let alone appreciate them, because they feel a whole lot like emptiness that had to be filled with words. But as Keiji took his hand in his, it coaxes him into learning from silences, because nobody has to feel the need to please someone by speaking; words do not account for what they are and who they are to each other, and it is in quietness that they have the opportunity to appreciate the mere presence of each other’s company— of their just being there for the other.

But then he feels tremors in his hand, and it’s not coming from his own body; it’s Keiji who is shaking. All along there has been too much to be expressed about the feelings he has, and they are so strong that he’s been lacking the frame of mind to even communicate them; translate them into anything remotely more tangible than the rawness of emotions. And so he has been keeping them in his heart, acknowledged only by his mind, and letting them weigh down upon his weary eyelids till the next high tide comes and now— now he is finally free to be with the sea again.

Osamu decides to stop by the pavement, and he uses his other hand to support Keiji’s shaking one, bringing it to his lips as he mutters apologies and sweet nothings, but he is painfully aware that nothing he says or do now can eradicate Keiji’s pain from the decision he made three years ago. 

“I don’t think I can ever make it up to you,” Osamu says, voice cracking as he feels a sob forcing its way out violently from his throat, “But know that if you want to give us another chance, I will fight for you this time, fight for us.” 

Keiji had been crying in front of his laptop when he was confronting Osamu about his change in demeanour, how he felt like their video calls were just becoming routine and therefore an obligation he had to fulfil. He laughed cynically and asked Osamu if he was that much of a weak coward, that he couldn’t even handle long distance, that he didn’t want to fight for them and their relationship.

His answer had been the most pathetic sounding ‘yes’ Akaashi has ever heard, and he snorted in disbelief before throwing his laptop against the wall. He completely flew under the radar after that incident — changing his number, quitting his job to earn his pilot license — Akaashi Keiji wanted to drop off the face of the earth, and then soar into the skies when he’s ready to. He just didn’t expect to run into Osamu again. The skies making way for sea. An anomaly. He sometimes wonders if Miya Osamu breathing in front of him means that ashes are able to rise from the sea and eventually unravel itself into a phoenix— and thus, fire appearing from water. An anomaly. 

“Osamu,” Keiji sniffles, and then he swallows as he tries his best to not let his voice falter, “You’re so fucking stupid, a moron, a goddamn—”

Osamu pulls Keiji into his arms by the wrist, hugging him tight, refusing to let go, “I’m sorry that it took me this long to realise that I still need you, that I still choose you after all these years.” 

They’re both the same height, but Osamu always feels bigger than Keiji, broad shoulders and all. Keiji clings onto him even tighter, burying his face into Osamu’s warm, sturdy chest. His shirt is stained with tears and snot but he doesn’t care, not when he will trade everything just to be holding Keiji, when he will move mountains just to have another chance with him again. Another sob, then—

“I’ve missed you.”

Osamu looks up at the ceiling of his car, and he hastily releases an arm around Keiji to wipe away at the tears that have spilled onto his cheeks. He rewraps it around Keiji, and then places a kiss on the crown of his head, “Me too, Keiji. I missed you so much.” 

Keiji pulls away, and even with swollen eyes and tear-stained cheeks, he smiles the same smile that he had on when he first took off into the skies— “Welcome back.”

Three years ago Keiji cried in front of Osamu because of all the ugly that there is. Tonight he cries because of all the beauty that Osamu is, that he feels, that they have, that he knows, that Osamu brings, that they savour and deepen still. It is a pain of their own fallibility, of being the closest in scrutiny and confrontation they’ve ever been with their own dreams, but it is a pain that is inevitable in a love that persists throughout the pain, which is made worthwhile and bearable by the love. Toughened and taught by the pain. Softened by love. Rinse and repeat. Strip down and soap up and lather and slosh. Rinse and repeat.

As he goes forward.

Keiji will love Osamu in all these and more.

-

Keiji lies in a mess of pillows and hinges caterpillaring across his throat, and consumes the superfluous when he doesn’t actually care. His apartment is still again; he closes his eyes and feels the sheets against his skin but it’s his thoughts that blanket. Tonight, his only pulse has been to _feel._

His head is way too full of heart; his heart too full of nothing.

He has been stamping down his idealism by drawing cynicism into the picture. It’s not that he lacks the capacity to love — it’s that he’s adamantly against the notion of allowing himself to love because he doesn’t believe himself to be worthy of it.

Going forward, always forward, not looking back, crunching leaves under his steps, the night’s breeze in his ears, strides thumping like a steady heartbeat, moon firm overhead, a reminder.

Then his eyelids flutter open again to be brought back to Osamu hovering above him, eyes looking at him as if it’s a final confirmation of whether Keiji really wants to do this and _yes, god, yes_ does Keiji say with the way he pulls Osamu down by the collar to have their lips meet each other in a searing kiss. Keiji’s hands are roaming Osamu’s biceps, and he gives the occasional squeeze, feeling for the taut muscles. His skin is warm to the touch that if Keiji thought otherwise he’d think that Osamu is having a fever, but he knows that they are burning with desire and yearning and want and he kisses Osamu even harder.

Eagerly licking at the line in between Keiji’s lips as permission for him to insert his tongue in the caverns of his mouth, Osamu nearly comes undone when the warmth of Keiji’s mouth engulfs his tongue, and he lets out a groan. Keiji feels too warm in his pilot’s suit jacket, and he pushes himself up to slide his arms out of the sleeves, throwing it aside haphazardly, the golden stripes glimmering under the moonlight. His tie comes next, but it’s Osamu’s fingers who are eagerly tearing away at the knot, pulling it loose before letting it join his jacket on the floor. Desperate fingers find their way back around Keiji’s neck, this time reaching to unbutton his dress shirt. They continue kissing each other with fervour, breathing becoming an entirely foreign concept to them. They are lost in each other’s hunger and thirst, overwhelming heat taking over them. Osamu curses as the middle button refuses to pop out of its place, and Keiji breaks the kiss to chuckle, “Just tear the goddamn thing. I have another 20 of these dress shirts.” 

His voice is shaky, lungs deprived of oxygen and his eyes are shimmering amidst the dimness of the room, and Keiji doesn’t have to say anymore for Osamu to rip off the buttons, shrugging it off his shoulders, and then tosses it behind him. 

He then works on his own sweater, lifting the hem to pull it over his head. Keiji’s pilot cap on the top of his drawer doesn’t escape Osamu though, and he makes a grab for it, smirking down at him. Keiji’s eyes widen in realisation as his gaze lingers on his cap, and he watches it making its way on the crown of Osamu’s head, fitting snugly on top of it.

“Fuck, Osamu,” Keiji growls, and he wraps his arms around Osamu’s neck, yanking him down to reconnect their lips. Osamu pushes Keiji back down to the bed before he starts to leave a trail of kisses across his jawline, and he goes down onto his neck. He still remembers all of Keiji’s sensitive spots, and he goes to the one right below his Adam's apple, sucking and nipping at the skin. Keiji lets out a moan, and god forbid Osamu from losing his sanity— countless nights he could only hear it in his dreams and now it’s finally reality again. He pulls back, and smirks when he sees a blossom of red forming on his skin, and now he wants to make sure the same red is littered all over Keiji’s skin.

Moving to his collarbones, he bites down against the jut of his clavicle and as soon as he earns a hiss from Keiji, he immediately darts his tongue out to soothe the sore spot. Keiji’s fingers find their way into Osamu’s hair, tugging at the black strands as he bucks from pleasure when Osamu nips at another sensitive spot. 

Deciding that he has left enough hickies, Osamu trails further down Keiji’s body with his tongue, and latches onto his nipple. He licks and sucks at it until it’s pebbly, and he does the same for the other one with his hand. He flicks at it, and then pinches it, eliciting a grunt from Keiji. 

Keiji whines the moment Osamu detaches himself from his nipples, but his crotch suddenly meets with Osamu’s hand, and he yelps, then groans shamelessly as Osamu starts to knead his hard on. 

“You’re so hard huh,” Osamu leers, licking his lips when he looks up to see Keiji’s face contorted with pleasure, whines leaving his mouth as his breathing becomes even more uneven. 

“Osamu, _please_ ,” Keiji pants, pushing his hips up so he can lean in further to Osamu’s touch, wanting more, needing more. Osamu growls at Keiji’s neediness, and decides to reward him by undoing his belt, and removing his slacks just enough so that he can slip his hand into his briefs, to rub his erection directly. Keiji shudders and turns into goo at his touch, and he mewls when Osamu starts to pump his shaft, pre-cum starting to wet his underwear. 

“Fuck, Keiji. You’re so fucking wet,” Osamu groans, the sight before him simply being surreal and breathtaking: the way Keiji lies vulnerable before him, desiring and being the desirable. He’s a whimpering mess beneath Osamu, and his muscles are contracting with every pump Osamu gives— he is close to reaching his climax. But Osamu wants to deny him that, wants him begging for more, and so he pulls his hand out, making sure to lick the pre-cum off his fingers, and he stares intensely at Keiji while he does so. 

“Osamu. Just fuck me already,” Keiji cries, body convulsing as he writhes from the loss of touch, aching to be pleased. And as much as Osamu wants to drive his body into him and be engulfed by his tightness, he wants to take this slow, wants to savour the moment, wants to leave red asters all over Keiji’s body with his lips. 

Completely peeling off Keiji’s slacks along with his briefs, his cock springs up, painfully hard and it’s calling out to Osamu to stroke, to touch, to claim as his. Keiji’s eyes are squeezed shut, unsure of what to anticipate next and Osamu uses this anticipation of the unknown to his full advantage, immediately taking him whole with his mouth. Keiji _yells_ and Osamu is about to lose it, his cries reaching towards his crotch and he feels himself twitching in his pants. 

He misses this so much, miss Keiji crying out for him, miss Keiji being his to claim, miss Keiji being so needy for him. He starts to loll his tongue around Keiji’s cock, making sure to swirl over every inch of skin, taking in the saltiness. Keiji bucks his hip, and his dick goes deeper, touching Osamu’s throat, testing his gag reflex. It doesn’t deter Osamu in any way, and in fact tries to reach for the base of Keiji’s cock, deepthroating him. Keiji lets out the most gratuitous moan, and it drives Osamu crazy, fuelling his desire to make Keiji quiver and shake underneath him. As he starts to go back up, he releases his cock with a loud ‘pop’ sound and he takes in the sight of Keiji’s cock perking up, leaking pre-come, wet and red for Osamu. 

Osamu is aware of the way Keiji is breathing harshly, threatening to spill all over if he continues with his ministrations, but Osamu wants to taste Keiji and swallow him, and so he dives back down, wrapping his lips tight around the head of Keiji’s cock, tongue swirling around his slit— obscenely slurping. His hands reach up to fondle Keiji’s balls, and he reacts by pulling hard at Osamu’s hair, overwhelmed and on the verge of overstimulation— Keiji has always been this sensitive, and Osamu loves it. He’s practically sobbing at this point, and so Osamu sucks him whole again, hollowing his mouth to provide more suction and at the same time making good use of his tongue, darting it out to lick and swirl around Keiji’s pretty cock. 

“O—Osamu! I’m about to—” 

Keiji doesn’t even complete his sentence when he spurts into Osamu’s mouth, hot liquid shooting out from the slit of his head and Osamu gobbles it all up, making sure to swallow every last bit of cum before he removes himself from Keiji’s cock, string of saliva following his mouth.

“Fuck,” Osamu pants, wiping his chin with the back of his hand, “That was so fucking hot, Keiji.” 

He dives back down, this time round to have his lips collide with Keiji’s, kissing him with filth and the sounds they both make are so wanton, a mixture of moans and grunts as their tongues wrestle each other. Osamu’s pants get even tighter and tighter, and he pulls back, wheezing from the lack of breath, “Keiji. Where’s the condoms and lube?”

The realisation hits Keiji.

“The lube is in the drawer but I do not have condoms.”

Osamu half-cries in frustration, “I don’t have condoms too. I— I haven’t had anyone else after you.”

“Me too,” Keiji whispers, and his heart is warm knowing that Osamu never considered being with someone else rather than him, and he tugs at Osamu’s wrist, “We can do it raw.” 

“Are you sure you’re okay with that?” And Osamu is looking at him tenderly, his eyes fondly gazing, and he can’t help but profess, “I love you, fuck. Akaashi Keiji, I love you so fucking much.”

Keiji brings Osamu’s hand to his cheek, nuzzling against it as he nods, and Osamu feels a pang in his chest but it’s not in a bad way but rather it’s so full of warmth that it reminds him of hot ramen during a cold winter. Reminds him of the ramen they shared in the dead of night at Shibuya. Osamu uses his free hand to reach for the drawer, grabbing the lube. But as soon as he lifts the bottle up, he notices a picture of the two of them, scratched up. He decides against asking about it now, but he makes a mental note to take as many new pictures as he can with Keiji. 

“Sorry, darling,” Osamu coos as he slips his hand out of Keiji’s grip, so he can strip out of his pants and briefs. Flipping open the lid of the lube bottle to squeeze a generous amount on his finger, he ghosts it around Keiji’s hole, and Keiji starts to shift uncomfortably, wanting Osamu’s finger in him already. And then finally places his fingertip against Keiji’s puckered entrance, teasing as he slowly pushes it in. The two of them let out a groan— Osamu’s finger being buried by the tightness and warmth of his hole and Keiji relishes the pleasure of slowly being filled. Seeing that Keiji isn’t in any discomfort, he slides his finger all the way in, and he starts crooking it, already trying to find his pleasure point. Keiji gasps at a certain angle, and Osamu takes note of it as he pushes his finger back and forth, making sure to brush against that spot every time he does so. 

“More,” Keiji begs, and Osamu lets out a string of curses as he pulls his finger out, and lubricates his middle finger before pushing it in together with his index. This time, Keiji cringes a little and Osamu places a kiss on his forehead, his other hand wiping the sweat off his temples as he strokes at it gingerly. He goes at a slow pace, carefully watching for changes in Keiji’s expression so that he knows when he can start going faster. He tilts his head downwards, and kisses Keiji, trying to distract him from the discomfort that he is feeling. Their lips and tongue move against each other languidly, and when Keiji finally lets out moans, Osamu finger fucks him faster until Keiji is crying for more. 

He finally adds in a third finger, and he feels all three of it sinking into the walls of Keiji’s hole, and it’s so unbelievably warm that it’s driving Osamu on the verge of insanity and he groans thinking about his cock being taken in by the same warmth and he goes a little faster, eliciting songs of pleasure from Keiji’s lips. 

“Do you think you’re ready?” 

“Yes,” Keiji cries, “Yes, I’ve been dreaming of this moment for the past three years, so god, _yes_.”

There’s the sound of the lube bottle being uncapped, and Keiji feels dizzy from the suspense— he only had his own fingers the past three years, and now to have Osamu filling him again is almost dreamlike for him, and he clutches onto the bed sheet beneath him tightly, wanting to grip onto this reality and believe that it’s truly happening. 

Then, he feels the coolness of Osamu’s lube-slicked cock against the hotness of his own hole, and Keiji swears he’s starting to see stars, almost going delirious. Push, and then the burn, but there is the touch of cold from the lube, and Osamu’s assuring whispers of sweet nothings— Keiji finds himself gasping for air, reminding himself that he has to _breathe._

Osamu nearly chokes when he pushes his head in, overwhelmed by Keiji’s tightness. It takes him all the willpower that he has to not just go all the way in in one swift motion, remembering that it always takes Keiji awhile to get accustomed to the size of his cock. His mind is about to implode, as he inches slowly into Keiji— the squelching sounds of lube fighting friction, Keiji’s sobs of pleasure, his heightened awareness of sweaty skin against his, the sight of Keiji naked and bare before him, decorated with marks as if his body is screaming _‘I belong to Miya Osamu and him only’_.

And when Keiji finally lets out a yell and is wrapping his legs tightly around Osamu’s hips after an agonising minute or two, the latter starts to move faster, making sure to experiment with his pace to see how fast he can go without Keiji feeling discomfort. He pushes in, and then pulls out, and he starts to go at it rhythmically when Keiji just falls apart underneath him, begging for him to go faster and harder. Keiji grinds his hips against his, needing Osamu to go as deep as he can, needing his insides to be claimed and destroyed by Osamu. 

Osamu intertwines his fingers with Keiji’s, his mother’s ring glinting back at him, and so he raises it up to press a kiss to each and every of his knuckle, as he fucks Keiji’s hard. The sound of skin slapping against skin is loud and it fills and infiltrates the silence of Keiji’s apartment, followed by their grunts and moans. 

Keiji’s erection is hard against his stomach, calling out to Osamu, begging for it to be stroked. Osamu continues pinning Keiji’s hand beside his head, while his free hand moves down Keiji’s body painfully slowly, making sure to caress every nook and cranny of his upper body before brushing against his cock. Their moans are getting louder, and they both know that they are close. Osamu finally grabs his shaft, pumping at it slowly, trying to time his orgasm so that they can come together. Keiji turns into putty, throwing his head back as he squeezes his eyes shut, mouth wide open as he pants and moans and cries as he’s being driven to the edge, about to reach his climax.

Osamu’s hand starts to move faster as his hips aggressively snap back and forth, ramming hard into Keiji. He swears he’s starting to see flashes of white in his vision as he begins to go in a daze, his sight becoming foggy and his mind only gets clouded with the idea of orgasming. He, along with Keiji, are convulsing from the sheer pleasure of it all, and there’s a ringing in his ears before he _screams_ , and Keiji follows suit, hot white liquid spurting all over his stomach and Osamu’s hand. Osamu continues to milk Keiji, making sure that every last bit of cum is released, and then he falls on top of Keiji, not ready to pull out just yet, the combined warmth of Keiji’s hole and his own cum feeling too damn good. 

They take a moment to catch their breath, before turning to face each other for a kiss. This time it’s soft, lips melding against each other gently, one that conveys gentleness and fondness and love. 

“You drive me absolutely crazy,” Osamu whispers, and punctuates each word with a kiss, moving from his lips to his nose to his cheeks to his forehead and then back to his lips. Keiji only hums, still coming down from his high. And when he finally has the strength to stare back at Osamu, he feels his breath hitching once again at the sight of his pilot cap on Osamu, except that it’s a lot more crooked now from their activity. Keiji only smiles, and then he playfully swats at the cap, letting it fall on his chest as they both giggle. And then they are kissing again. And again. And again. 

Then it hits them that they are currently a sweaty and sticky mess, but Keiji whines in complaint when Osamu lifts himself up so that he can at least wipe off the semen off their bodies before it dries up.

“Don’t be gross, Keiji,” Osamu frowns, but then his face lights up as an idea pops into his head— “Or why not we have round two in the shower?”

“You’re insane,” Keiji huffs, but he’s getting ready to stand up from bed. There’s a skip in his step, unapologetically joyful as he wraps his arm around Osamu’s waist, pulling him into the toilet with him. 

And he is reminded of their first time: Feeling so sickly but so young. The turn of his life. The newness of everything.

-

Flying really does make Keiji _feel_ — his body is strong and alive, and he is attentive to his own breaths. Orion’s Belt is center stage against the drape of night sky. It always feels almost too mystical to be true (and yet it is!): he is constantly re-grounding himself in purpose and the stars are validating his floating, his feeling; his heart toughens up so that it may love more, know more, grow more, provide more, nourish more. Everything unpalatable it nonetheless swallows, digests, and renews to bear new light and life. It is rendered tender, and through this, fills itself up, feels itself whole — meatier and even more substantial. It doesn’t appear so sometimes with his avoidance, but he will never tire of love. He could never. His brain calibrates itself around that, and recalibrates itself around that still when something feels lodged inside the clarity of its self-conviction. Where coldness arises there will always be a counterforce ready to unthaw, ready to understand, ready to hustle and shovel and learn, so that he is reminded of warmth that sustains him, that makes him. His heart will always be soft and feisty and restless and ready and eager. Sweet and ripe and thirsty for fruit. Open to learn, open to feel, open to share, open to care. 

This is his truth: the truth he knows of and within himself, so, so surely.

He realises that he treasures liberation as much as he do love, and he wants both, and he strives for both, concurrently, this sweet pursuit of both sky and sea, the balance of this split: half and half as divinely partitioned with boundless spatial strength— side by side company and peace, clouds and clarity and water bodies with cleansing driftwood and waste; a baptism and rebirth and stairway to his dreams.

-

**[Miya Osamu]**

I miss you :<

Why is your route so long this time...

Hmph. My restaurant will be done by the time you’re back.

<angry onigiri sticker>

**Read 12:09AM**

**[Me]:**

You’re so dramatic, there’s no need to exaggerate.

But I’m sorry dear. I can’t exactly choose my routes yet.

I’ll bring back souvenirs okay. Miss you too.

And I love you. It feels weird sleeping in an empty bed.

**Read 12:10AM**

**-**

_The other night, under the stars and rushing clouds — a drag, billowing smoke and speech, and two gentle taps to rid the ash — “Did you feel cared for?” — He — “Did you personally feel cared for in a way you understood?” — head against cloth, wind against stomach and neck — eyes on the still night — he is drinking green tea and sweating a little in his denim but he guards his skin with shyness (and it’s too cold without, anyway) — “Does it give you a rush? Doing something spontaneous?” — he gets anxious, but excited, anxious and excited, so yes._

-

Osamu trashes around his kitchen and lets out an exaggerated gasp when he sees that Keiji’s fridge is empty, with only a carton of milk (Keiji cannot even recall if it’s expired already) and some beers. 

“You don’t even have eggs or rice?” Osamu shouts from over the threshold of the kitchen, and the next thing Keiji knows is that the pillow he’s lying on is pulled out abruptly from underneath him, causing his head to fall back onto the mattress with a thud. 

“We’re going grocery shopping,” Osamu grins down at him when he sees Keiji frowning at him, clearly feeling inconvenienced. Jet lag is harsh on him, and he just wants to be in his own bed— “Can’t we order in?”

“Well, I was supposed to make you eggs and benedicts the other time but we ended up devouring each other instead,” Osamu smirks, and Keiji feels a heat fanning across his cheeks to the tip of his ears. Keiji pulls Osamu down onto the bed with him, and snuggles against him as he wraps his limbs around him, “At least let me take a cat nap. And I missed being in your arms,” Keiji mumbles, voice groggy and full of sleep. Then, as an attempt of a final push, he cracks open an eye and smiles lazily at Osamu, “Plus, you already made me some pretty amazing onigiris and home-cooked meals.” 

Osamu pouts, “But you didn’t say it was the best meal of your life.”

“You are the best meal of my life. Now let me sleep.”

To that, Osamu feels his heart racing, and he gawks, but Keiji doesn’t seem to want to continue the conversation any further _—_ his breath evens out as he pulls Osamu even closer to him, and a faint smile finds its way on his face.

-

In Cambodia, Keiji lights an incense at Angkor Wat, praying for Osamu’s restaurant opening to go smoothly.

In Taiwan, Keiji releases a paper lantern, hoping for them to never separate again.

In Vatican City, Keiji kneels and prays for a steady and certain and fierce strength... A gentle strength, a soft but firm strength... not _strength_ as in the _aggression of wildfire_ but as in _the slow, eternal burn of a quiet, unwavering flame, bright in the darkness, warm in the coldness, both sweet and resolute_.

Finally, in Kyoto, before returning back to Tokyo, Keiji leaves a message at Yasaka Koshin-do Shrine: a message for him (but not to him).

_i. I would like to plant baby’s breath in the tenderness of your tongue — watch rivers shift and trickle out of your mouth’s tactfully cold cave. From there descends an alluvium of words — loud, unspoken — to erode any barriers between us._

_ii. North has the brightest buds, south the quietest slosh of met palms. We’ll be put on a stove: caressed blades, plowed misfortune, schools of thought, streams of unhooked, meandering fish; left to simmer, right to be wronged._

_iii. Silt is made strong by a relentless urning of stream, yet at sundown let us lay weak on our backs, with lips like saline and a confluence of attention._

_iv. I imagine this: you and I flowing together as currents but withdrawing like the tide. (never forever, never for long.) Still, we stand before an empty land; our fingers unfurl, and between us always, always a grain to spare._

-

Keiji’s apartment starts changing, feeling more lived-in now. There are two toothbrushes in the cup by his sink, clothes not belonging to him having their own space in his wardrobe, and of course, there is now an abundance of food and ingredients in his fridge (Osamu’s eggs and benedicts are fucking _amazing_ , by the way).

In his room, there are strings hanging across the wall behind his bed, polaroid pictures hung onto it with clothespin. But then there’s one right in the middle, where the scratched up picture is put up. Osamu had frowned and asked Keiji if he was sure, since he had the original photo file in his camera anyway, but Keiji had nodded and smiled, saying that it’s fine, that that picture in particular is something that has seen them from the very beginning of their story. 

Slippery slopes, and Keiji is at the foothold of this next phase in life, together with Osamu. Sometimes he still finds parts of himself tucked into loose leaf sheets of the past; but as Osamu takes his hand in his, he knows that he’ll find a testimony inscribed in paperbacks, and between the pages, pressed flowers and fulfillment.

***

Keiji is holding onto a bouquet of daffodils, and he wipes the dust off the glass that covers the front of the niche that holds a picture of his mother, along with some other trinkets. He feels a lump in his throat, but he doesn’t feel choked up. He opens his mouth to speak and the lump dissipates— _liberation._

“Sorry for being busy, but I think you’ll be happy to hear that the past two months have been good to me; i think it’s been a while — years, even — since I’ve ever lasted this long, feeling stable, happy, brave, hopeful, excited,” he chuckles, wiping away the happy tears that are resting on his lower eyelids. And then he feels someone grabbing his hand, and metal is clinking against metal. Keiji doesn’t have to turn to figure out who it is. His smile only grows bigger as he looks at the picture of his mother with fondness and bliss, as if she has bestowed onto him a huge blessing. 

Their hands are interlinked, matching rings dazzling brightly under the afternoon sun. A huge blessing that she has bestowed, indeed. 

Last night Keiji dreamt of a red moon and a shifting sky and soft smiles. Loose sheets, tossed linen, and clarity. Hiding, running, being watched — all in welcomed, seized delirium.

“Thank you, mom. For the pair of rings.”

**Author's Note:**

> talk to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/revuhrie)! please scream about it to me heheh kudos and comments are very much appreciated!


End file.
